


Pas de Deux

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Spooks | MI-5, The Ghost Squad
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two can play that game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pas de Deux

"I'm asking you again: who are you working for?" 

They've been over this seven times already within the last couple of hours without getting anywhere, and Lucas' patience is slipping. Somewhere, at some point during the next 48 hours, there'll be a cargo box with enough explosive material to blow up the entire City passing through customs as easily as a box of stuffed toys. They're running out of time to track down the delivery. There's no hot trail, nothing, just a division of crooked customs officers who may or may not be involved in this, among them the man who's currently sprawling in the chair opposite Lucas. 

They don't really have much to pin on him, not enough to connect him to international terrorism anyway, but there's something about John Briggs that triggers Lucas' gut instinct. Briggs is looking far too comfortable for someone who's just been dragged from his bed more or less straight into one of the interrogation rooms down at the far end the basement of MI5 headquarters. 

Briggs is sweating under the too bright, far too hot spotlights, he's unshaven and tousled-haired and barely even dressed, but his blue eyes are sharp and aware, and his stance is suggesting that he doesn't feel particularly intimidated by the setting.

"Don't matter how many fucking times you ask," he says, looking straight at Lucas. "The answer's still the same. Look, I dunno what you want me to say. You clearly got the wrong guy here."

There's a certain kind of smugness in his protests where there should be frustration, if he was as clueless as he said he was. It's as if, all his protests aside, Briggs isn't even trying to play innocent, but rather basking in arrogant certainty that they've got nothing on him. His profile suggested that he would be the weakest link in Thomas Jackson's department: the new guy, easy to break, they'd have him grassing up his mates in no time. In hindsight, Lucas thinks that whoever made that assessment was a horrible judge of character who'd been sitting in his office studying files with no personal contact to any human being for far too long.

Something about Briggs is off, and it's getting under Lucas' skin more than he's comfortable to admit. It's the self-assuredness, the insolence, the way his eyes seem to be seizing Lucas up and filtering away every movement, every word, profiling him. It makes Lucas' fingertips tingle in a horribly familiar way he hasn't felt in months now, and he's careful to stay a safe distance away from Briggs, keeping the table between them as a solid, physical border.

"When's the delivery coming in, Briggs?" he asks as he leans forward, palms flat on the metal surface. 

He catches Briggs' eyes, bright and attentive under that messy fringe of brown hair, flickering down to Lucas' right wrist, where he knows that the edge of the tattoo is visible where his sleeve leaves off. As always when he spots someone noticing the ink, his stomach contracts uneasily and he feels the urge to tug his sleeve further down to cover it up. He forces himself to stay still, letting Briggs look at it all the way he wants because hiding it now would mean lowering his guard, and he cannot afford that.

But when Briggs' gaze rises back up to his face, a hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and Lucas knows he must have given himself away already.

"Aren't you getting bored of this yet, asking the same questions over and over again? 'Tell me this' and 'who is that', never even raising your voice like this is some polite dinner conversation. You know what I think? I think you're a wolf trying on a sheep suit and liking himself in it far too much. You enjoy playing at being all calm and civilized and unruffled, don't you? But that's not who you are."

Lucas remembers himself in Russia, when it was kill or be killed, when being _civilized_ and _calm_ didn't get you anywhere, except down on your knees or face-down in some corner with your throat cut and your blood painting the dirty floor red. 

He rounds the table carefully, step by step, Briggs eyes following him as he approaches. Whatever's showing on his face seems to be enough to unnerve Briggs, finally. Lucas only stops when he stands right behind him. For all Briggs' loose sprawl and nonchalant manner, the muscles on his neck are so taut they're practically quivering with nervous tension, and the urge to twist his head and look at Lucas is written in every line of Briggs' back. He jumps a little in his seat as Lucas puts his hands on top of the back rest of the chair, behind Briggs' shoulder, and leans down until his mouth is right next to Briggs' ear. 

"If you were as smart as you think you are, you should know that antagonizing me isn't in your best interest," he says, in a low, calm voice. Watches as, right under his gaze, the man's Adam's apple moves furiously as he swallows. 

_Gotcha._

Briggs turns his head towards him, the stubble-rough cheek brushing against Lucas' nose until Lucas backs off a fraction, and the short-lived sense of victory evaporates. Briggs smells of stale sweat and cheap shampoo. He's smiling, mocking.

"And I'm sure you have my best interest at heart, do you?"

Lucas moves without giving himself the chance to think or Briggs the chance to react. He reaches out and grabs Briggs' right arm from the arm rest, pulling it far behind the back of the chair and twisting the wrist up until there's a small, thoroughly satisfying wince escaping from the man's lips. Briggs tries to move his shoulder back to ease the pressure, but the more he gives, the more Lucas takes, pushing the wrist up until he knows it's only another inch until he dislocates the arm. The bones feel frail and small under Lucas' fingers, and the skin is warm and slick with sweat. The pulse is beating furiously against his touch.

"Aye, that's more like it." Briggs laughs again, but it sounds strained and tense now, as if he's trying hard to cling to his attitude even when he's scared shitless.

Never easing on the death grip on Briggs' wrist, Lucas uses his free hand to reach around him and take hold of his jaw, forcing his head back as far as it goes until he can look him in the eye when Lucas is leaning over him. "You wanted the wolf to come out? Be careful what you wish for. How about we start on those questions again? Tell me about the delivery. I want to know where and when, and who you've been in touch with."

Briggs' jaw moves in Lucas' grip when he speaks, and his voice is muffled because Lucas doesn't give him enough leeway to open his mouth properly. But it's enough for the taunt to come through. "That all you've got?"

For a moment, all Lucas sees is red, and he wants nothing more than to twist that wrist until Briggs screams, crunch the bones until they break and wrap his hand around the guy's throat until he's begging for air. But this is not Moscow and Briggs is just a nobody, a smug little fucker who just doesn't matter enough to turn Lucas into someone he doesn't want to be. He takes a breath of stale, stuffy air, takes the white-hot rage and locks it away until all that's left is the appropriate amount of anger reserved for some smart-arse lowlife.

He lets his hand slip from Briggs' jaw, letting go of the wrist just a second later. Briggs makes a strangled noise halfway between a sob and a scream. 

"Interesting act you've got there," he says, once he finds his voice again, even if it's shaky and his gaze is warily following Lucas' every move. "Good cop and bad cop, all rolled into one. Are they paying you double?"

Lucas tangles his fingers in Briggs' hair and forces his head back, nowhere near as viciously as his earlier manhandling, but still firmly enough to be uncomfortable. Blue eyes stare up at him cagily.

"You know what, Johnny? I think we're going to let you go," Lucas tells him in a conversational tone that hides how frustrated he still is about the turn this interrogation has taken. They're not going to get anywhere here, like this. Time to shake things up. "We'll give you a lift right back to your buddies and see you off with a pat on your shoulder and a thank you we make sure everyone hears. How'd you like that?"

He watches Briggs' face closely, waiting for the fear to grow. Instead, there's a frown furrowing his forehead that looks more genuine than anything else Lucas got from him all day. He looks… _confused._

Before Lucas has time to ponder what that means, the door opens with a low squeak and Ros enters. He lets Briggs's hair go with a vicious shove forward, watching him struggle to regain balance just in time to avoid crashing face-first into the table.

"You're free to go," Ros tells Briggs, her voice cool enough to freeze the air in the room. "Your boss just came in to clear things up."

Briggs' head snaps back up at that, momentarily looking as confused as Lucas is. Lucas frowns, imagining Jackson walking into the MI5 headquarters to get his little lapdog back. The thought is at equal amounts amusing and absurd, and he knows that he's missing a piece of the puzzle. "What's going on?"

"He's undercover," she explains. The way she says it, it sounds like an insult. "Meet Detective Sergeant Pete Maitland, trying to play with the big guns. His DC's up with Harry, filling him in on their state of investigations. He could have saved us a lot of time and effort if he'd bothered to tell us."

Her heels are making appropriately angry noises as she strides off with a final glare in Briggs' direction, leaving Lucas to stare after her, digesting her words. 

Next to him, Briggs— no, _Maitland_ hides his face in his hands and starts to laugh. "Hold on a sec, you're actually the real deal? Shit, I thought you were bluffin'. Thought this was some sort of fucked-up test Jackson staged to test my loyalty. _Fuck!_ " Leaning back in the chair, he looks from Lucas to the open door Ros just disappeared to and back again. "Well, I guess I should feel honoured for the chance to see the insides of an MI5 interrogation room."

He's still chuckling wryly, and Lucas feels the irrational urge to punch him again. 

"You're an idiot," he bites out between clenched teeth. "You think this is funny? We're not playing some sort of game here. This could have got really ugly."

"Yeah, right." And then, in a flash, Maitland's up and right in Lucas' face. The metal chair clatters harshly to the ground, making an awful sound on the tile floor. All the fatalistic humour that was pissing off Lucas just a moment ago has completely drained from Maitland's voice at once, and his eyes are cold and hard. "Because so far, it was a real walk in the park."

Before Lucas can make a judgement call on whether he'll have to defend himself, Maitland has stepped away again. He's still within punching distance, but he looks less inclined now to get violent, more tired than angry, running his left hand through his hair to smooth down the mess Lucas left.

"You didn't exactly make it easy on yourself," Lucas says, carefully observing Maitland. Right now, the guy's a bomb that could go off at a single wrong word. "Nor on us. This could have been over hours ago if you'd told us who you were."

Maitland shrugs. "You know how it is. You get into character and stick to your story the best you can. If you'd been hired by Jackson to rough me up and see if I keep my gob shut, anything else would have been a fast way to end up floating in the river with a bullet hole in the head. Couldn't risk that, could I?"

"Jackson's not really the problem here. He's small fish."

"Yeah, I'm starting to get that. I'm sure a bunch of bent customs' officers are not exactly on top of MI-5's most wanted list. So, what's this all about?" 

Lucas fixes him with a hard stare. "You know I can't tell you that."

"Right." Maitland snorts and looks away, as if he's trying to bite back a harsher comeback.

There's awkward silence on their way from the interrogation room. Up in the corridor, Ros passes them with a stack of files, paying no attention whatsoever to Maitland, and Lucas knows she's already dismissed him and moved on.

It doesn't stop Maitland from addressing her. "Where's McKay, then? You said she came in…?"

"She's with Harry. They should be out soon," Ros says, more to Lucas than to Maitland, and then she's off again. 

Maitland stares after her, somewhat bemused.

"You want me to get someone to check out your hand?" Lucas offers.

Maitland frowns and experimentally flicks his right wrist, tentatively probing at it with the other hand. Pain ghosts over his face: a brief flash and then it's gone again, hidden away behind a mask of nonchalance. "No need. Just a bit bruised. I've had worse."

The voices from Harry's office carry over to them, getting louder by the minute. Clearly, Maitland's boss is not happy. Neither is Harry, from the sound of it. Amusement settles on Maitland's expression. "That's going to take a while. Once she starts off, there's no way to get her to back off until she gets her way, and something tells me your boss is not going to just roll over for her. Can you call me a cab?"

"I can give you a lift, if you like."

The offer is automatic, perfunctory politeness more than anything. He's certain that Maitland will decline. Sure, they're both on the same side, technically, but just because Maitland knows that Lucas is one of the good guys doesn't mean he'll be any more inclined to forget that Lucas almost broke his hand a couple of hours ago.

Maitland opens his mouth to reply and Lucas can already hear him say that he's crazy if he thinks Maitland will voluntarily agree to get into a car with him. But then a lopsided grin stretches the corners of his lips upwards and there's a hint of mischief in his eyes that makes Lucas wary. 

"Actually, you know what? That's the fucking least you can do." A shade of Briggs' old smugness is echoing in his voice.

Lucas blinks, taken aback by the sudden change of mood. It's as if Maitland has made it his mission to defy all expectations to constantly throw people off and keep them on their toes. And judging by the way it's working frighteningly easily on a senior MI-5 officer, he seems to be doing an excellent job of it. Well. It's not like Lucas can retract the offer now, can he?

* * *

"I'd invite you up for a drink, except I think I've had quite enough of your company for today," Maitland says, as the car stops in front of his apartment building. Lucas turns away, hiding his flinch. Earlier, when they drove off, he noticed Maitland wincing when he drew the seatbelt across his arm, and he wondered if he shouldn't have insisted on getting him to see a doctor. The drive has been silent, for the most part. Maitland's been slumping in the seat, careless enough to let the tiredness show on his face, dark shadows under tired eyes. On his chin, finger-shaped bruises are beginning to bloom.

Lucas is so busy trying to rein in the sharp rush of guilt that he almost misses the rest of Maitland's jibe. "'sides, I'm too fucking sore to be doing anything for a few days."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and when they do, Lucas, despite himself, can't quite hold back the chuckle. Maitland's been doing his best to keep him off-balance all day, and Lucas has an inkling that maybe that's not all been just the Briggs persona. It just figures that he would make this sort of proposition, deliberately unsubtle, and wrap it up in a thinly-veiled accusation.

"You can buy me a drink sometime next week, though," he adds. It's obvious that he's thoroughly satisfied with himself and his little game – and with the reaction he's getting.

_'You complacent little shit!'_ Lucas thinks. Asks, "Who says I want to buy you a drink?" without bothering to hide the amusement swinging low in his voice.

"I do," Maitland counters. He opens the seatbelt and leans back against the passenger side door, watching Lucas, his head resting lazily against the window. In the neon light of the streetlamp his eyes are twinkling, and his smirk is wide and toothy, daring Lucas to deny the truth in his assumption.

Lucas doesn't. Neither does he agree, but his lips are twitching, and he's sure that Maitland knows he's won this round. 

"Good night," he says, pointedly. 

Maitland gets the hint and opens the door, sliding out of his seat in a smooth, graceful motion that makes Lucas wonder whether Maitland has exaggerated the extent of his bruises to guilt-trip him. Cold air streams into the car, hitting Lucas in the face like a wall of ice. 

Maitland leans back down. Despite the fact that isn't exactly dressed for the weather, he doesn't seem in a hurry to get out of the cold. When he speaks, his breath mists the air between them. "See you around, then." 

He offers Lucas' a final glimpse of that cock-sure half-smile before he throws the door shut with a little more force than necessary and walks off in quick strides, his hands buried in his pockets. Lucas' eyes follow him until he's swallowed by the darkness. 

"I guess I will," he mutters into the empty air next to him. He turns the heating up a notch and pulls the car around, driving off.

End.


End file.
